


untitled

by Frogluv123



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Horror, Stanley Uris Takes a Bath, Suicide Attempt, Will add tags as the story progresses!, graphic depictions of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-15 23:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21026279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frogluv123/pseuds/Frogluv123
Summary: [[For your own safety & mental health, please read the tags!!]]It was the middle of summer vacation, and Peter Parker’s Aunt Patty and Uncle Stan had invited him and May over to stay for a week or so. May hadn’t been able to get time off work, but Peter was old enough to travel on his own by now and his aunt and uncle were happy to have him over.(Technically, they were his aunt and uncle twice removed, or something- his uncle was Ben’s cousin- but they were still family.)





	untitled

Peter was so, so bored. He’d spent nearly all day traveling and he was still on a train. His legs were starting to fall asleep, sitting still for so long, and his phone’s battery was dwindling at 23%.

It was the middle of summer vacation, and his aunt and uncle had invited him and May over to stay for a week or so. May hadn’t been able to get time off work, but Peter was old enough to travel on his own by now and his aunt and uncle were happy to have at least one of his little two-person family over. 

Technically, they were his aunt and uncle twice-removed or something- his uncle was Ben’s cousin- but they were still family. Peter hadn’t seen them in a while, though, not since Ben’s funeral, and not since his Bar Mitzvah before that. It still hurt to think about Ben, sometimes, so he stopped. Now wasn’t the time for Peter to be sad.

In fact, he was pretty excited to be away from home for so long, without worrying about his class finding out his secret identity or Mr. Fury or Mysterio. Man, Mr. Stark had really saved his ass when he interrupted the broadcast right before Quentin said his name to the whole world. And Ms. Potts had, too, making a statement on Mysterio’s actions and his lies, and how Spider-man was the real hero.

(He may or may not have teared up, watching it. God, he loved Ms. Potts.)

After another few minutes of pondering, the train started slowing and rolled to a stop in the station with a squeak of the wheels and the distinctive hiss of the carriage stopping. As soon as he was sure the train was actually stopped, Peter stood up. Immediately, he cracked his back with a series of satisfying pops, then took a moment to stretch out his legs. It felt good to be standing again.

He slung his backpack over his shoulder and grabbed his luggage, standing in line and wishing the people working at the exit a nice day. One of them even had a southern accent, which wasn’t too surprising, because his aunt and uncle lived in a suburb on the outskirts of Atlanta and he was in the South right now. Still. Peter hadn’t ever heard anyone with a real southern accent before, besides on TV. It was everything he could’ve hoped for and more, honestly. 

After trudging through the crowd of people and managing to escape the inside of the train station, Peter took a glance at the giant map of the city plastered to the wall, and, after double checking to make sure he wouldn’t go in the wrong direction (which has happened more than once- New York’s streets are really confusing, even for someone who’s lived there their entire life), he started the trek to his aunt and uncle’s house. 

They’d offered to pick him up, but his aunt had to work that day and needed the car. After that, his uncle had offered to call an Uber for him when he got to the station, but Peter told them he could just walk. The house was only a little more than a mile away from the station, and it wasn’t like he had a lot of luggage or anything. Spider-strength helped too, of course, but it’s not as if he’d told them about it. That would just be stupid.

He had to check his phone for directions, once or twice, but the walk was easy and within half an hour of getting off the train he was there.

The house was nice, lots bigger than his and May’s small-but-cozy apartment. Two stories, pale blue with a deep brown porch and white railings, shingled roof and vibrant flower boxes hanging off the second story windows. It looked homey. Inviting. Peter gave himself a moment to take it all in. It’s soothing, in a way New York could never be. Quiet. There’s grass on either side of the pathway, and he hears birds chirping in the trees nearby, leaves rustling in the slight breeze. He feels calm.

Then he rolls his shoulders and makes his way up the steps, knocking on the door. His uncle is supposed to be home, that day, to welcome Peter and help him get settled in and also because it was one of his days off anyway. But he didn’t answer the door. Peter knocked again, and then tried calling him on his phone. It rang once, twice, six times before going to voicemail. Somewhere in the house, he could hear the echoing ring of another phone, before he clicked his own off. 

Peter tried the door handle, next. It was unlocked.

He pushed the door open fully, bringing his bags along with him, and shut it behind him. The house was well lit, decorated modestly but nice, with a mat inside and a key rack by the door and a few pairs of shoes underneath. The walls were a pale blueish gray, with white baseboards and soft brown hardwood. A flight of stairs going up were in front of him. It was exactly what Peter would expect. That was just the kind of people his aunt and uncle were- pretty predictable, in a good way that made his heart swell. Jewish to the core, friendly and open, warm, comforting.

And yet, he felt unsettled. His fingers itched for action, for something he couldn’t quite grasp, and the back of his neck prickled. He wasn’t sure if it was spider sense or just plain old anxiety, though, but it was still there. The house was eerily quiet, not peaceful like the outside had been. There was no more birds, no more wind rustling the leaves, no more sunshine and cheery flowers.

He set down his bags by the entry and took a few cautious steps forward. To his right was the living room. It was carpeted dark red and painted a shade of sunshine yellow, but the only light in the room filtered in through a pair of windows with the blinds open. There were little things, though, that made it look lived in- a jacket draped over a chair, pictures on the mantle of the fireplace, coffee mugs and books and a laptop scattered across the coffee table from what he could see, still by the entryway. It painted a cheery picture and it made Peter’s skin crawl. The room seemed... wrong, somehow, in its comfort. It didn’t fit the moment.

To his left was the dining room, a pale green. It was oddly empty, except for a few paintings on the walls and a vase of carnations pushed off to the side of the table. One chair was pushed back, and in front of its place, scattered notebook papers. Six were written in black, from what he could see, and each seemed about the same length, half a page of ink. One was longer than the rest, written in blue.

Peter didn’t step into the room. Couldn’t, really. Cautiously, he cleared his throat and called “Uncle Stan? Are you here?”, and he didn’t get an answer. His eyes itched. He wanted to call out again. He pulled out his phone and dialed, instead, and the answering ring of his Uncle’s phone echoed from upstairs, quiet but more than loud enough for Peter himself to hear.

He followed the echoing ring, phone still clutched loosely in his hand as he made his way up the stairs. They didn’t creak and he could barely hear his own footsteps over the pounding of his heart in his ears. It would probably be better if they did creak. Then he would have a reason to feel as terrified as he did in an empty, unassuming house, when the things he faced on a daily basis back home were so much bigger.

He stepped onto the landing. His shoes made a quiet thud, and Peter idly wondered if Aunt Patty would mind that he’d worn them in the house.

The ringing sounds through the hallway, from the closed door at the end. After a moment, it cuts off, the phone gone to voicemail. Peter turned his off, but held onto it, just in case. When he made it to the door, he pushed it open before he could even think about what he was doing (his spider sense was screaming at him to open it openit openitOpenItOPENITNOW and that’s enough for him) and then inside.

Inside.

Uncle Stan is in the bathtub with the curtain pulled halfway but Peter can still see his face and his arm and his eyes are closed and there’s so much blood it’s turning the water red and he can’t be sure if Uncle Stan is breathing and for a moment his traitorous mind replaces him with Uncle Ben, bleeding out in his hands and there’s blood on Ben- no, Stan’s hands and there’s blood on Peter’s hands as he tries to stop the bleeding and oh god. 

His hands are shaking but Uncle Stan is to still too still and with one hand he tries to cover the source of the blood on his uncle’s arm while the other tugs at the shower curtain, a knee bracing it against the tub until he rips off a strip to use as a bandage. He moves his fingers (they’re dripping red and none of it is from him) and wraps his uncle’s arm shut, pulls a long swath of fabric around and around and makes sure to be careful and keep it just tight enough because one bad pull could crush his uncle’s arm and he doesn’t trust himself with this task but there’s no one else nothing else no more time so it’s either him or nothing at all. 

When the fabric ends there’s a block around Stan’s arm thick enough to be a cast and the edges are turning dull rusty pink but there’s no more blood pouring out of the wound or seeping through so he counts it as a win. He takes a deep breath because he feels two seconds from passing out and all he can smell is iron. It’s humid in the bathroom and the red water is warm and the air is humid, he can feel it from there, but Peter feels like he’s been dunked in ice. 

He stood still, for another moment. Breathed. In, out. A drop of water from the faucet hit the surface of the tub, and it snapped Peter out of his thoughts. He scrambled for his phone, laying forgotten on the floor. He couldn’t remember having dropped it. Peter picked it up, hands shaking and sticking to the screen as he tapped at it, dialing for help, for anyone. Each tap left a red smear on the screen.

When he was about to hit call, a noise came from the tub that stopped him in his tracks. Peter dropped the phone to crouch by the tub, hands fluttering uselessly at his sides, unsure. 

“Uncle Stan!” 

His voice came out choked, wavering, but at least he was able to talk. His uncle groaned. One eye cracked open, then the other. They slowly tracked up to Peter, pupils blown wide and gaze unfocused, but Peter felt like he could cry from relief.

Uncle Stan didn’t say anything, just lifted his uninjured arm across his torso, reaching. Peter grabbed it with one of his own. His uncle’s hands were cold and clammy, even with the warm water, but he still managed to wrap his hand around Peter’s smaller one and squeezed it once, gently. Stan’s eyes slid shut again. 

Peter called an ambulance.

**Author's Note:**

> WIP! If you have any title suggestions, or see any grammar / spelling errors (especially with tense) please let me know!
> 
> And if you liked the first chapter, feel free to leave kudos or drop a comment! It helps motivate me to write more :)


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